


Trophy Wife

by Davechicken



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: M/M, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 20:24:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9255053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Galen believes he deserves his punishment.





	

Galen had always known Orson had… interesting tastes. They’d only been fuck-buddies for a few months in the Academy, and it had been there in the glint in his eyes, or the way he’d go from perfectly normal to barking commands, or shoving his way into whatever position he’d wanted.

At the time, Galen had not minded. It was blowing off of steam, and getting to know his body and his tastes better. Orson was one of those people you had to like and remember liking him didn’t mean liking everything about him. Charismatic, as long as he was pleased with you. Smug, but usually with some form of a reason.

Galen had been… well. Married to his work. Orson had been an affair, and it hadn’t been until he’d met Lyra that anything had pulled his mind away from the purity of science, not really.

And once she’d gone, Orson had assumed things could reset. That they could just be like they had once been, albeit with Galen in an openly lesser position. 

Maybe they can. Galen could decline, but why? His body still wants things, and the more Orson thinks he’s indispensable, the safer he is. The tighter his hooks sink into the Director’s flesh, the longer he can hold on, and drip his poison into the project. 

He has to be above suspicion. He has to be everything Krennic wants, with just the right amount of self-loathing at their situation to avoid anyone questioning why he’s so pliant. Fortunately, self-loathing is something he can find in abundance.

***

Orson is staying the night. He often comes to ‘supervise’ and check up on the progress, and he often stays for a night, or even two. Galen isn’t always notified in advance, but it’s okay. He lives in a constant state of ‘Orson might arrive’ unless he’s just left. It’s easier to handle, that way.

The man spent most of the day demanding status reports and findings that could just as easily have been comm’d over, or holo’d, and Galen wonders who Orson is trying to convince? Himself? The scientists? The Emperor?

Either Orson trusts his work, or he doesn’t. Keep coming by won’t make that any better, and makes him appear neurotic, not in control.

(He tries to think it isn’t just _himself_ the man comes to see. He’s not sure how he’d handle that.)

Now, when the working day is long over, he’s called to Krennic’s office.

He’s Krennic, when he’s like this. When he’s… making much of his rank. He’s Orson when Galen slips up, and remembers someone who used to be his friend. He’s Orson when Galen misses him, and Krennic when he doesn’t.

The man is off-duty, or so the bottle on the table says. He’s removed his hat and cloak, but his gloves still snug his fingers blackly as he swirls the brandy in his tumbler. 

“I want you to toast with me,” the Director says, nodding to the empty vessel and the half-full bottle.  


“What to?”  


“Why, to our success.” He says it as if Galen should already know.  


Success. It doesn’t feel like it to him.

Galen isn’t sure if this is yet an open invitation, so he simply stands with his hands clasped lightly behind him.

“Well, go on then.” Annoyance, and another gesture.  


Galen pours himself a small slug of the liquor, and then offers to top Krennic’s back up. The man holds his glass out expectantly, and then brings it up to sniff.

He’s just being pretentious. He always _was_ pretentious. Galen simply sips at his drink, and waits for the other shoe to drop. 

It’s always uncomfortable, this time before the man voices what he wants. Galen wishes in some ways that he’d just get on with it. That he’d have the balls to demand it right off, or take it. Instead, he puts this shitty veneer of ‘companionship’ and ‘camaraderie’ over what is much more gritty and simple.

They are not comrades, or companions, not any more.

Sometimes Galen tries to push the issue to a quicker resolution by dropping to his knees, and initiating first contact. It doesn’t always get received kindly, especially if Krennic is feeling awkward. Instead, it’s taken as presumptive, and usurping control.

Today, there’s that durasteel sharpness in the edges of Krennic’s eyes, and Galen knows he’s going to suffer. He downs the drink, and puts it down.

 _Try me_.

Krennic pauses, the glass almost at his lips. His eyes slide over the scientist, making Galen’s whole body flush. He wants, and he does not. He needs, and he does not. 

_Try me, you Imperial bastard. Try me._

“Strip.”  


Galen works his throat bare, then pulls off the layers covering his torso. He’s not as young as he was, but he’s still toned, still fit. He bares his greying chest, and doesn’t break eye-contact with Krennic all the way through. 

Hands on his belt, and he sees the convulsive swallows, the tongue over lips. He knows Krennic finds him attractive, and he’s not afraid to flaunt. He shimmies things down, and plucks his feet free, standing utterly nude and defiant in his obedience.

Galen wishes he wasn’t as aroused by this as he is. Is it the fact that he’s wanted? Or does he crave the subjugation and punishment? Is it his penance to pay, to allow those gloves upon his skin? Is it his way of undoing all the blood on his hands?

Krennic crooks a finger, and he goes. He goes, and he stands between those spread-open thighs, and feels the grip about his throat. It presses _hard_ over his jugular, and his eyes drift nearly shut at the choke of it. There is no panic, because Krennic wants him _alive_ , and relatively unscathed. Any pain, any injury, will only ever be passing. It’s part of the arrangement, and he trusts the man’s ambition over his sentiment any day.

He lets himself be held still, and then allows the fingers to trace his chest, pulling at a nipple, pinching it until he has to bite his tongue to stay silent. His throat is released, only for a slap across his face to follow through.

“It’s not going as fast as it should.”  


“It’s going as fast as I–”  


The hand grabs his mouth, and Galen wants to _bite down_. Wants to sink his teeth past the glove and into the flesh below, not taste the tanned hide. He fights his anger, fights the urge to punch, claw, kick.

“It’s not. Going. As fast. As it. Should.”  


His face is released, and the next slap has him spinning, grabbing the desk for support. Don’t fight back. Don’t. Don’t. He urges his mouth not to retort, and waits.

“You’re not trying hard enough. You know how I know? Because I know _you_.”  


Oh, but he doesn’t. Galen is working as fast as he can, and the truth of his deception is far deeper than speed. He keeps his face averted, licking over his teeth.

“Get that award. You know the one.”  


The one Krennic had brought last time. A symbol of their previous success that Galen had thought he’d left behind. It’s large, phallic, and really he’s beginning to suspect Krennic of long-gaming him again. _Again_. No matter how much he likes to think he’s ahead of him… he goes and does things like this.

“Put a condom on it, and then use it in you.”  


It’s… uh. About three finger-widths? Two? It’s not exactly made for initial insertion, and Galen is pretty sure Krennic means ‘right away’. 

He pauses, then feels a hand in his hair, bending him backward. He hisses, going where he’s dragged.

“If you don’t, I’ll shoot your laziest scientist, right in front of you.”  


Fine. Galen walks over to the trophy cabinet (because of course Krennic has one in the office he isn’t even always in) and retrieves the trophy. And the lube and condoms, though those are thankfully not kept on public display. He slips the condom over the trophy, and pours lube onto his fingers. 

“In front of me,” Krennic says, pushing his wheeled chair away from the desk to make room between them.   


Galen sighs, and stands there. The toy on the table, he starts to finger himself. He’s not really aroused from this, or even from the eyes that watch him ease his body open. He’s gone soft at the thought of innocent lives being lost, and he’s too busy focusing on the self-sodomy not injuring himself to fix his libido.

Two fingers. Three. He’s about to slick up the trophy when he hears Krennic reach for it, and then it’s pressing (dry) against his barely-ready hole. 

Relax. Relax. Don’t let him rupture you. Don’t let him break your body. The intrusion of it, and the slight sting of pain… it’s enough to tweak at his dick again, and he feels it slowly start to fill. 

Stars, but he’s fucked up. Getting off on this, on the gloved fingers that stroke his taint, massaging dispassionately to get him harder. He grunts, and grinds, and grabs the desk harder. It’s good, and maybe even better than Krennic’s dick, though he won’t say that in case he never gets to climax again. 

Hard pressure, working his walls, stroking inside, and he’s pantingly stretched. Wider, his hips beg, tilting and demanding. Harder. 

“You’re such a pathetic little slut. You don’t deserve this award. You disgust me.”  


 _Same to you_ , Galen thinks, and shoves his eyes against his arm. 

“Are you going to beg? Are you?”  


“Please, Director…”  


“Please: what?”  


“Please… I don’t deserve this.”  


“You’re right,” Krennic coos. “You greedy little traitor.” He pulls the trophy out, dropping it to the ground with a thud.  


Galen knows Krennic wants to come, and that’s his only real advantage, here. He throws his hips up higher, offering his body, and hopes he’ll be feeling generous enough tonight.

Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe Krennic just wants in him. Either way, there’s a _ziiiiip_ sound, a rustle of rising, and then the man’s pushing his cockhead at his hole. He’s stretched plenty (maybe too much), and the hands on his hips as Krennic slams into him. 

He probably thinks he’s bigger than he is, or maybe he thinks Galen just needs him? Whatever. It’s still satisfying, if not the most satisfying ever. Galen grunts, and takes the vigorous thrusts all the same, finding his body reacting to the shame of this as much as to the stimulation. So hard, and he could probably come without touching his dick, if Krennic lets him. Slam. SLAM. **SLAM**. 

Pressing deep inside, and what would Lyra think of this? Taking it up the ass just to keep himself alive. Letting a load up his rear, poisoning him from inside. He thinks about the Death Star, and how he’s bored a similar hole there. One they’ll never think to look for, and as he’s gloating about that, a hand pulls at his hair, making his eyes sting. Teeth in his shoulder, clothed thighs at his own, and he howls out a wordless surrender as his body takes the offered pain and hits his climax without asking his permission.

Shit. He’ll get punished for–

Oh. He feels the drunken thrusting go utterly out of synch, and then there’s a hiss of an insult to his neck as Krennic spends, too. Clearly his climax set the man off, and he’s grateful. It’s always tender being fucked past his own arousal, and he sighs into the desk.

“Pathetic,” Krennic purrs, like it’s an honour. “You must try harder.”  


“Yes, Director,” Galen says - though he’s not sure how he can.  



End file.
